


This Is How A Heart Breaks

by ifdragonscouldtalk



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood, Can be read as preMcSpirk if you squint, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Spock (Star Trek), Gen, Hurt Spock (Star Trek), Hurt/Comfort, Insecure Spock (Star Trek), James T. Kirk & Spock Friendship, POV Spock (Star Trek), Poor Spock (Star Trek), Spock Has Feelings (Star Trek), Spock Has Issues (Star Trek), Spock Whump (Star Trek), Woobie, but mostly Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:40:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23399341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifdragonscouldtalk/pseuds/ifdragonscouldtalk
Summary: He collapsed to his knees, pounding his fists into the sand until they were bloody, his eyes filled with grit and tears, screaming just to drown out Sarek’s words about his worth (or lack thereof), screaming just to hear something other than the roaring of the crowd and the rush of blood in his ears.He would rather tear himself apart for this broken fondness than hurt those that had brought him some measure of happiness and love in this twisted mechanism of life which he had taken for granted. He should’ve known better than to believe they truly cared, that anyone except for her had truly cared, that life might try and heal the mess it had made of him, stranded between two worlds. Maybe his heart was breaking and he would destroy them all in the process anyway as it exploded outward, but it wouldn’t be through his hands. Not by his hands.
Relationships: James T. Kirk & Leonard "Bones" McCoy & Spock, James T. Kirk & Spock
Comments: 12
Kudos: 83





	This Is How A Heart Breaks

**Author's Note:**

> This is about four times longer than I wanted it to be but I've finally finished it. I hope y'all enjoy it, tell me if the ending is okay!  
> I suggest you listen to Rob Thomas' "This is How A Heart Breaks" which is what I had on loop the entire time I was writing the first half of this while you read! Its the song that inspired the idea and one of my favorites of Rob Thomas.

He tongued at his split lip just to feel the sting, to taste the copper. There were things he couldn't recall and a desperate ache in his head that spoke of mental tampering, making his spine run cold with the ice of horror. Things before coming to standing in this arena, with the crowd screaming around him and the lights piercing against his skin and his friends facing him in a semi-circle, all still in their uniforms, there must’ve been a mission but he couldn’t remember it. Before he realized Sarek was there too, in his robes, face as blank as he had ever seen it. Before the crowd had released their unending roar that seemed to wrest the last vestiges of control from those who he called family. 

His chest was heaving, sweat prickling against his skin, shameful evidence of his lack of self-control that Sarek pointed out as such, still standing apart from the rest of them, watching him like he was a lab experiment instead of a son, and God how he ever hated that. Jim’s fist connected with his jaw and there was another rush of blood in his mouth, rocking back with the blow. 

“FIGHT ME!” Jim roared, uncontrolled and animalistic, and Spock’s hands trembled with it. He wouldn’t fight them. (He wouldn’t fight them he wouldn’t fight them he wouldn’t fight them he wouldn’t fight them-) He wouldn’t lose his control again, not like this, not against Jim, not once more before his father. He could control this, at least, control his own reactions even if he did not understand their actions. 

Sarek, at least, did no physical damage, and the rest being Human could do very little to him, not with the potshots they were taking in turns. The superficial bruises above his ribs ached, but not moreso than the twisting of his guts against the emotions on their faces, against the acid in their words. He used his thumb to wipe off the trickle of blood creeping down his cheek once more from the cut on his eyebrow, a lucky shot from Hikaru’s ring abrading the thin skin there, another useless stinging. He licked his lip again, knew Sarek had noticed, and clenched-unclenched his fists. 

Leonard was, in some ways, a mercy in the whole situation. His insults were no more cutting than usual (very cutting) and his fists were not made to harm, even in such a situation as this. “Still got ice in your veins, I see. It doesn’t even bother you that we hate you. I bet no one has mattered to you since your mother. No, I bet even she didn’t matter to you.” 

It cut deeper than the nails Nyota raked across his jaw, both making him stumble back and clench-unclench his fists again, heaving in desperate breaths, trying to calm himself with the salty, heated air. (He would keep control. He would keep calm. _He would keep control,_ even if it meant succumbing to this torture. Even if it meant his heart broke slowly in his side.) 

The flash out of the corner of his eye caught his attention and he turned, faster and more uncontrolled than he wanted, and _when had Pavel gotten a knife?_ Ah, but there, the crowds were throwing weapons into the sweat-soaked sand, rocks and knives and switches, and the others were unlikely, from what he had observed, to arm themselves with one, but Pavel, the smallest of them, the one least likely to do him serious damage... well, clearly he thought he needed the assistance. 

_Dodge,_ he told himself desperately, but his body was shivering with incoordination and lack of control, and he wondered how long they had been at this, and whether he really wanted to. 

He jumped back from the blade, feeling the slow itch of blood down his cheek once more, tonguing his lip for the sting, for the focus, feeling Hikaru and Scotty’s arms close around him, and he could break free if he wanted. He could, if he wanted. (He didn’t want to fight them. He didn’t want to _hurt_ them, because he _was_ everything they said, was weak and shameful and not enough of a Vulcan or enough of a Human, was really only created to be an experiment, social and biological, but he _cared_ about them, damn it all, and he was stronger than them and if he lost control he could kill them, and God how he ever hated that now.) 

He was breaking under them, his breath whooshing out as Jim rained blows on his abdomen, strong, stronger than the rest of them, and his father and Leonard slowly cut him to pieces with their words. Maybe he was emotionless. (Maybe he wanted to be.) But they certainly knew how to manipulate what little he had against him. 

His fists clenched, breaths heaving. _Don’t. I cannot. I can’t hurt them. I can’t fight them._

Pavel was coming again as Jim retreated, and it wouldn’t be a potshot this time, wouldn’t be a bit of bruising he could easily heal with a dermal regenerator or, hell, a few days alone, it would be damage, blood and rended flesh, and again he wondered if he really wanted to dodge, yanking away from the men holding him with an incredible scream, sick of it all, _sick of it all, he was sick of it all he couldn’t stand this anymore, he was sick of living like this-_

There was nothing hard enough, here, nothing he could smash his head into to intensify the ache, nothing he could easily self-destruct with. A blade would be too quick, he needed to _purge_ himself, to take away all these emotions and the want to see those bruises against Jim’s neck again in the shape of his hands, the image of Leonard bloody under him, Nyota’s lifeless eyes. Sarek, falling. _He needed it to stop._

Another scream tore from him, primal, and the crowd screamed back in return, and he couldn’t stand the noise against his ears, didn’t understand why they had backed away from him, wary eyes and twitching fists. He wouldn’t hurt them. He _couldn’t_ hurt them. He could keep himself from that. 

_Will killing them hurt them?_

The right amount of pressure, the correct bundle of nerves- 

He collapsed to his knees, pounding his fists into the sand until they were bloody, his eyes filled with grit and tears, screaming just to drown out Sarek’s words about his worth (or lack thereof), screaming just to hear something other than the roaring of the crowd and the rush of blood in his ears. 

He would rather tear himself apart for this broken fondness than hurt those that had brought him some measure of happiness and love in this twisted mechanism of life which he had taken for granted. He should’ve known better than to believe they truly cared, that anyone except for her had truly cared, that life might try and heal the mess it had made of him, stranded between two worlds. Maybe his heart was breaking and he would destroy them all in the process anyway as it exploded outward, but it wouldn’t be through his hands. Not by his hands. 

He didn’t know how much more he could take, too close and not close enough to the edge, didn’t even know how long they had already been at it, barely registering the silence of the crowd as psionic energy poured off of him like fever heat. _“Why?!”_ he was bellowing, barely registered that he was actually speaking the words, pounding harder and harder into the soft sand below him, slowly stained green. _“Why are you doing this to me!”_

They could feel him breaking down, fraying at the edges, and his eyes were burning with anger that he held back, he had to hold it back, he would not inflict upon them the bruises they had so willingly given to him, and the crowd around him was starting to sink down in their seats, as if frightened of him, as if frightened of what they had done. 

“Spock!” 

He tore himself away from Jim’s animalistic, frightened eyes, to a pair far more gentle in their fright, phaser raised and hair undone. His chest was heaving and he tongued his lips to feel the sting, trying to bring himself back from the line he had almost crossed, trying to reel in the waves of _painhurtawaydespairbetrayalcannothurtthem_ pouring off of him like flames across a slick of oil, all he could taste copper and sour anger, bitter terror. 

“Spock,” Jim said, and his gentle voice carried across the sudden silence in the stadium as Leonard and Scotty stepped out from behind him, both also armed, raising his hand in a ‘come hither’ gesture. “Sorry for the late rescue, but we’re here now.” 

Spock didn’t understand. His head hurt, ached, trying to reorganize itself, hurting him in the process. He looked back at the snarling crew before him, sweaty and stained with his blood, and then at Jim’s gentle smile, Leonard’s quiet determination, Scotty’s tense anger. 

And then, at Sarek's head turning sharply as _he_ stepped out from behind him, black robes and a high collar and _shit_ no wonder the students at the Academy had been terrified of him if he looked at them like that, if he spoke to them in that ringing tone -- "Fascinating." 

He didn't understand.

"The imitation has been a failure. Look at how far it has departed from my true ways." 

He didn't understand, he didn't understand but his heart and head were aching and his hands felt useless with blood. "Imitation?" someone said, and he couldn't tell which Leonard it was. 

"Truly remarkable," Sarek added. "And ultimately a failure. It should be destroyed."

"A few emotional words and a betrayal and it falls apart. You see, Captain?" And Spock was speaking to Jim behind him, and his blood was rushing in his ears, and he was _real_ goddammit, he was real even if he was shameful. "I would not make a good match as your First." 

"Spock, don't listen to him." His blood was pulsing stinging green onto the sand and his psionic energy was still prickling across his skin, and it was so deathly silent he wondered if he had died without realizing. "You're real. You're in a simulation generated by the Alwoogs, it's designed specifically with your fears, it's meant to break you. You, there, that's its defense mechanism, trying to keep you confused and scared enough to break you down." 

"It has," he told Jim hoarsely without looking at him. "He is correct. I should not be your First. I am shameful... Weak." 

"It has tainted you, Captain. Worry not. I shall dispose of it, and assist Starfleet in matching you with a better suited officer."

But even if he was correct, Spock knew one thing. He could not determine what was real or not, could not determine which words were true, but he could determine _he_ existed, he was alive, and he was excessively mortal. The thing (for it had no mind when it touched him, nothing mirrored through his skin) had its hands wrapped around his neck, and his bloodied hands automatically sought the glass bottle that had landed near him in the sand, smashing it over its head, watching green blood pour down its temple as it stumbled off him. He stood, slipping ungracefully in the sand (it had been too long since he had been home, far too long) as he backed away, towards those three men who reached back at him with their minds when his crumbling walls came crashing down, psionic energy pouring off him, seeking the familiar and the stable. His head ached, body twitching out of his control. 

Even if his shields were down, even though he was rather skilled in the mental arts, his mind should not have effected the others this way, not psi-null Humans. It should not have made them stumble away from him, fearful, should not have silenced their voices when they opened their mouths to speak. 

“Spock, it’s not real,” he heard Jim say again, behind him, the one whose mind was warm and reaching back from somewhere -- somewhere, he realized, not necessarily behind him, but they were together, their katras near each other. “We can leave, you just have to realize that it’s not true.” His head was pulsing, and he had heard of this, had seen it in some of the younger Vulcans after their home’s destruction, the self-lobotomy as their brain went out of control trying to cut away the trauma. His nose was bleeding, hot, gagging on copper as it dripped off his chin, fear pouring off him in waves. The walls of the arena were cracking, flickering like a computer glitch, and that thing wearing his face was still on the ground, blood pooled around its head. 

He had promised never to resort to violence again unless he needed to. 

Two more steps back and there were three hands on his arms, gripping tightly, minds pressing against and _into_ his, and his broken mind wrapped them around himself, using them as a shield. Sarek was glaring, cold, and 

the lights were harsh above him, eyes aching, and he imagined this was what it felt like if an industrial vice were to be wrapped around the skull and tightened slowly. His heart was beating too hard in his chest, his throat tasted like blood, his lungs weren’t exchanging air properly, he felt like he was _dying._ His head was tipped to the side, eyesight blurry as he took in the old-fashioned drip of enough sedative to kill a shelat, from what he could see of the label, needle stained green and now dripping onto the floor. “Shit, _shit,_ fuck, Jim we need to get him out of here now!” Leonard was shouting, and there were hands on him, undoing restraints he hadn’t even realized he had, removing nodes from the skin of his face, undoing some contraption around his head. 

“You _saved_ us, Spock. Do you hear me?” Jim’s hands were on his face, Scotty and Leonard and Hikaru, he thought, were hauling him upright as the world spun and bloody acid raced up his throat, blood dripping hot down his neck. Jim forced him to meet his eyes, piercing, serious, this was important and he tried exceptionally hard to focus on his Captain, to listen to his directive. “You saved us, because you’re a damn stubborn bastard. _Keep being stubborn,_ that’s an order. We’ve got a Betazoid standby on board who’s going to help guide you into meditation until we can get Vulcan on the comm, but Bones has got to stabilize you first.” 

“Damn, _damn,_ Jim he’s still got injuries, like he had in the simulation!”

He knew his eyelids were fluttering too rapidly, everything out of focus and too fast and unbearably sluggish. “Vulcans have full control over their bodies,” he said, offhand, as Jim allowed him to collapse against his chest, Scotty demanding a beam-out frantically. He still had their minds wrapped around him, warm and frantic and ever changing, and he could do that, he could be a stubborn bastard once more and do the impossible, try and stabilize himself against these Humans who were never stable. 

“What did he say?” The pull of the transporter took his body, and he and Jim were collapsing to the floor as soon as they rematerialized, the Captain controlling their descent and cushioning his body. 

“Vulcans have full control over their bodies,” Jim repeated, tightly, and Spock tightened his aching hands in his uniform in lieu of a nod. “They can go into a healing trance to focus their attention on healing an injury. If their body believes it has been injured...”

“They can injure themselves,” Leonard finished, and there was activity fluttering around them but Spock had to close his eyes against the pressure behind them, terrified that they would pop out of his head otherwise. “FUCK,” the Doctor screamed emphatically, and then took a calming breath, barking out orders to his team. “Get Mijora in here!” 

Words morphed into simply sounds around him, muscles spasming as he attempted to control the pain. Mijora was a Betazoid navigation command ensign, kind and quiet and intelligent, and Spock was sure she would do her best to help him how she could, try and calm his raging emotions; however she was _Betazoid_ , and he was _Vulcan_ , they were completely different in their biological structures, not to mention that she was an empath and he was a telepath. Spock was going to have to help himself (he always had to help himself), so he gathered his stubbornness around him once more and surged up, pressing his forehead to Jim’s and gripping his cheeks with bloody fingers. He needed an anchor, but he could fix this. Jim could help him, Jim was well matched for his mind, already knew what it was supposed to feel like. 

“Your thoughts,” he demanded, and knew there was a better way to phrase this in Standard but didn’t bother to think of it, “give them to me.”

Jim’s eyes were wide, fear and determination shining in them, and Spock felt him nod before surging forward and wrapping them together, sweeping Jim into the raging sandstorm of his mind. Jim tried to right them, struggling against him to push away the sands, demanding his control, and slowly the mindscape resolved into Spock’s old home on Vulcan, the image guided by Jim’s prodding. They were standing in the living room, upholstery and curtains torn to pieces, PADDs and books strewn across the floor, broken. 

“Spock,” Jim demanded, mind pulsing with pain, “what is going on?” 

“I am attempting to use your familiarity with the normal patterns of my mind to stabilize myself, Captain,” he replied, and his voice was not as even as he wanted it to be.

“Okay. Okay, how do we do this?”

“I must repair the trauma which my mind is currently trying to excise. I must come to terms with it.” Jim nodded, running a hand through his hair. 

“Alright, easier said than done. Spock, that simulation...”

“We shall speak of it later, Captain. Time is of the essence.” It was avoidance, and they both knew it, could both feel it, could hear it in the slight tremble of his voice, but Jim allowed it, nodding. 

“Let’s go find this trauma then, Mr Spock.” 

It didn’t take them long to find. 

The door to his mother’s study was scarred, red pulsing vines cementing the door to its frame, smelling of smoke and wreckage. Spock’s breath caught at the sight of it and he had to close his eyes, try and distance himself emotionally from it. 

Some of his fondest memories of home were in his mother’s study. She would sit and do her research, and he would practice the lyre, or sing to her, or do his own work. They would exist comfortably within the space, their regard for each other humming in the air -- it was a peace unlike any Spock experienced elsewhere, and it was one of the things he had missed most about home when he had left. 

Jim laid a hand on his shoulder. “Open your eyes, Spock.” He did as ordered, watching as Jim rested his other hand against the burning doorway, glancing back at him. “What is this?”

“It is my mother’s study,” he replied, but his voice came out hushed and choked. “We spent much of our time together here, when we were not in the kitchen or the gardens. It is where she conducted her research, and where she was... free to love me as a Human would love her son.” Jim looked heartbroken, taking a steadying breath but continuing to face him, to meet his eye. 

“What are you afraid of, here?” 

Spock wasn’t quite sure how to answer, wasn’t quite sure he wanted to dig deep enough to identify the feelings, wasn’t positive he wanted to reveal that weakness, that intimacy, to his Captain. He answered anyway. “... My mother is the only one who ever said she cared for me. I never said so back. I did not deserve her.” Jim tilted his head, studying him, his mind sweeping through Spock’s knowingly, wind rustling the torn papers and shattered PADDs, as if it could pick them up and place them where they were meant to belong. 

In truth, Spock didn’t remember a time where his mind wasn’t strewn with debris. 

“Okay. So you’re afraid no one cares about you. You’re upset you never told your mother you loved her, and you know she was and would be proud of you but think you don’t deserve it, because everyone else says you don’t deserve it.” There was a storm raging outside the house, rattling the window panes, and a shudder of pain ran down Spock’s spine. He nodded. “Alright. But Spock, you can’t lock out all those memories just because they hurt.” 

“The simulation was right,” he whispered, because he couldn’t hide anything here. 

“It was not,” Jim replied vehemently. 

“It was. I am not... enough. I am not good enough at being a Vulcan, or a Human. It is the reason no one... understands me. No one cares for me. It is the reason I was... not surprised.” Jim looked stricken at that, his fingers clenching into Spock’s shoulder, jaw clenching. “I was... unsurprised that I would be... betrayed in such a hurtful way. I have-”

“Enough,” Jim demanded, the doorframes shuddering with the weight of the emotions swirling within his mind. “We care about you, Spock. We would never hurt you, physically or emotionally. You are the best First Officer in the ‘fleet, I would be lost without you, and I would never ever want to fight you. The crew looks up to you, searches you out for support and answers, trusts you implicitly. They care whether or not you’re hurt, emotionally or otherwise, and _especially_ us on the Bridge crew would never wish harm on you. We care for you, and I know,” he continued lowly, leaning closer, “I know that your father cares for you deeply as well, in his own way. I saw how he acted around you, that day. He would never say such hurtful things.” Spock took a shuddering breath, looking away. The sandstorm had turned to rain and lightning, water pounding hard against the roof and walls, threatening a flashflood, and his eyes felt hot with pressure. “You can’t just lock away all those emotions you associate with your mom, all those positive ones, because you’re scared you’re going to get hurt again, because there’s a chance we could die or hurt you and you don’t know if you can stand it again.”

“I wanted to hurt you. I wanted to hurt all of you. I am dangerous because I’m not Vulcan enough. My classmates always said so, but I have never felt so... terrified of myself.”

“You’re not. You controlled yourself, you didn’t hurt us. Spock, you’re so damn stubborn that the simulation had to reroute its power to you to try and keep you under control, to try and break you the way it broke the rest of us. That’s the reason Bones and Scotty and I were able to discover what was going on and get out. You were under a horse-load of sedatives because they _knew_ you were psi-positive, and your mind was still so strong that you _broke_ a computer.” Jim stepped forward, hands on his shoulders, eyes serious and words sincere. His warmth wrapped around Spock like the heat of Vulcan, pressing gently against his mind, soothing open wounds. “You can’t shut us out. You can’t shut out your love and your affection and the care that you’re terrified to display just because it hurts. Sometimes, the most painful things are the ones most worth pursuing, even if it’s the hardest thing you’ve ever done. That’s the reason we’re out here on the _Enterprise_ on the first place.” Spock took a deep breath, could feel Mijora attempting to help calm his raging emotions at the edges of their consciousness. Something told him Jim was speaking from experience, even though he was too damaged to seek out those experiences at the moment, despite how twined together they were. He took another breath, letting the words wash over him like the storm passing outside, nodding slowly. 

“You are correct as always, Captain.” Jim grinned at him. 

“That’s the spirit. Let’s open this door, shall we?”

Spock found the garden clippers where his mother always left them, in a drawer in the kitchen, and handed Jim one of the pairs. Together, they clipped away the pulsing red vines, slowly clearing the door to Spock’s most painful and happy memories, silent, until they could swing it open and take in the damage. 

His mother’s study was destroyed, her books torn apart, her desk in pieces. Her research was shredded, her blankets scorched, her houseplants withered. It was painful to observe, but Spock knew with time he could put it all back in its rightful place. He looked over at Jim. 

“Thank you, Captain. I believe I am stable for now. I will still need to see a mind healer, however.”

“Of course, Spock.” He winced then, but his eyes were smiling and the sun was shining through the cracked window outside. “Let’s see how bad Bones yells at me for this.” Spock raised an eyebrow, knowing Jim could detect his amusement, and slowly pulled back from the meld, gently untangling the mess he had made of their minds in his haste. 

His hands fell from Jim’s face, limp, and his body ached in a way he had not experienced before. He would’ve collapsed if Jim’s arms hadn’t still been wrapped around him, and he had to keep himself from gagging at the taste of blood running down his throat, nose still bleeding. “Are you quite done?” Leonard demanded from somewhere behind him, panic masked by anger, and Jim let out a weak chuckle.

“Did we manage to get New Vulcan on the comm?” 

“Not yet, Uhura’s still trying. She’s about ready to hack Sarek’s personal line, last I checked. Can I treat my damn patient, yet?” 

“Be _gentle_ Bones.”

“Gentle my damn ass,” Leonard muttered as he and Jim hauled Spock to unsteady feet, helping him onto the waiting biobed. They were still in the transporter room, medical staff waiting at the ready on the edges of the room, Mijora wringing her hands anxiously. “I’ll show you gentle, you idiot. C’mon Spock. Let’s fix your ass up.”

“There is little wrong with my posterior, Doctor,” Spock managed to breathe out, even though exhaustion and pain were weighing heavily on his eyelids and vocal cords, and Leonard barked out a humorless laugh. 

“Don’t be a smart-ass right now, Spock, you look like hell.” _You could’ve died,_ his tone seemed to be saying, worried and fearful and angry all at once. “You too, Jim, I’m checking you out. Don’t look at me like that, I know when you’re hiding a headache! C’mon, troop, we’ve got work to do.” 

Spock let his eyes shut, safe, and his heart felt a little more whole when Leonard and Jim slipped their hands into his. 

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know what you think!


End file.
